


The Agony in Stony Places

by TF Grognon (gloss)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal, Double Penetration, Everything gets fucked, F/F, Oral, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/TF%20Grognon
Summary: An eldritch thing births itself into our world. A priestess's faith makes it possible.





	The Agony in Stony Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/gifts).



> Title from **[The Waste Land](https://www.poetryarchive.org/poem/waste-land-part-v-what-thunder-said)**.

Each morning, Linnea walks up the path through the forest to the temple. She removes her sandals, kneels at the small, roughly carved statue of The Lady, and makes herself humble. Her Lady is beautiful, face serene in the bliss of understanding. Someday, Linnea will carry a mote of that wisdom to the city and the university. Today, however, she tends to her Lady's home. Inside the temple, she sweeps out the leaves that blow in through the open sides. Rising from the spring around which the temple is built, the river's water runs through a deep, square-cut channel. The Lady's wisdom is like the river, always running, forever clear and sweetly nurturing.

Linnea skims leaves from the bright surface. Each one has been blessed to float on The Lady, so she places them, one by one, on the simple altar that surrounds the spring.

Each day is like the last, silent but for the wind in the trees and the slow soft slip of the water past the rock. 

Outside, however, past the temple and the village on the mountainous island set in the roaring seas that flow around the small round planet that swings through cold dark space, outside all of that, far beyond anything that any human being might imagine, there is ceaseless, formidable chaos. Things like vines, with beaks and shrieking gullets, tangle in the maws of time and yank on space until it folds up in itself and births new shapes, impossible to measure, never to be perceived without eyes that boil in their sockets and thoughts that turn on themselves to shred into kindling.

These things, Outsiders, roil with malice and yearn to consume. They battle each other, snap and slap and digest. They seek new dimensions, their own territory, where they might be sovereign. They press against our reality, distend it, scrabble for purchase and entrance. Our minds and reality form a fragile barrier against them. They _will_ birth themselves, burst through the skin or squeeze and roll up through invaginated channels.

Those sites where belief collects are most vulnerable. Our hopes and trust, our longing for something true and kind to guide us, weaken the barrier. We might as well invite the Outsiders in, swing open the door, assist the labor, cradle the new arrival with love.

We believe in something better, to our peril.

Linnea knows nothing of this, because she is a believer. She is dutiful and gentle, sweet-voiced and round-limbed. She loves her Lady.

Her Lady lies scattered across the cosmos, half-digested and spewed back out. 

The Lady's murderer twists a single delicate tendril, coated with silky hairs, each tipped with an eye that sees and a mouth that sucks, up through the Lady's spring. 

_This will do,_ the killer rumbles. Linnea thinks a storm is massing over the mountain.

She isn't, entirely, _wrong_.

The killer heaves and thrusts, breaking the altar like pottery.

Linnea screams and scrambles backward, falling into the river. A second vine-like limb wraps around her waist and lifts her, the Lady's wisdom pouring off her, splashing the ruined altar.

_What are you?_ , the killer asks. Its voice concatenates flocks of birds and screams of whales. It issues from the very root of Linnea's brain.

"My Lady?" Linnea asks. She clings to her hopes, seeks desperately to clothe herself in their safety and illusion. "Is that you?"

_Yes._ The killer ate the Lady and belched out flowering stars. _That is I._

"I seek only your wisdom," Linnea gasps. Her toes drag on the ground; she's dizzy and her wet gown clings to every curve, exposing her worse than if she were fully naked. The tentacle around her waist has split. One end, suddenly thick as a log, squirms between her legs, then shrinks again. The other end drifts up her chest, moving like an inchworm, adhering for a moment, then pulling free. Each little sucking pop sends a flicker of fire across her nerves. "Please, my Lady. Let me serve you."

The killer likes this toy. This tiny, breakable thing is warm and wriggly with a pretty voice. _You want me._

"I—" Linnea swallows. The thing between her legs forks again, one end poking up between her buttocks while the other end danced around her — her —. Pussy.

_Want me_. Each word claps like thunder within Linnea's skull.

"Yes?" She bends at the waist, tries to wrench herself free. "Please, my Lady, let me down, let me —"

_Serve me_.

"Yes. Please."

The branch on her chest forks. It's a shimmer, a glint of motion that she cannot trust her eyes to take in: one moment, a single vine, then time speeds up and there is darkness and brightness and sudden new growth, and forked vines wrap her entire torso. Many crawl under her gown, pinch the bottom swell of her heavy breasts, wrap around her nipples and yank them hard and long. More stream up her throat, test her pulse, tighten their suckling hold. They push her mouth open, unfurl across her tongue, and she tastes arid darkness, and eternal malice, and something tiny and sweet, a single husked seed that she sucks for, hard, desperately.

_Harder_ , the killer says. _Give over._

Linnea doesn't know what that means. Linnea doesn't know much at the moment. Tentacles swirl slime around her thighs and lick at the wetness between her legs and part her lips there and push inside. Their sisters reach backward, lift her buttocks and split her open. She cries out, again and again, as the killer twists inside. Up her cunt, up her ass, down her throat, even her nostrils. 

Linnea prays, even now. "Please, Lady, inspire me with your wisdom, grant me a measure of your peace, let me see the river move in the sun."

At the same time, her clitoris is throbbing as tiny, inquisitive cilia lick and tease at it. The thing up her cunt moves in pulses that match her own muscles, scrapes up pleasure and stuffs her full of it. Her ass is open, agonizing, burning, but all the same, when the central tentacle retreats, Linnea shoves back on it, fucks herself until her eyes roll back. 

_Are there more like you?_

"No," she thinks. She'll get the hang of lying. She's learning fast. She comes again as the little beaks bite at her nipples and throat. The quivering, unknowably strong thing fucking her mouth and throat isn't enough. She's choking for more, her lips split at the corners, her tongue swirling. When she licks just right, the thing shudders and sweats and it tastes like metal, like embers, like the destruction of everything. "There's me, and I am yours, and only me."

She comes again, crushing the tentacle between her thighs. Her arms flail, her head lolls back.

_Good,_ the killer says. Its voice sweeps down Linnea's spine, slurps up the fluid there and replaces it with its own ooze. It tastes Linnea's pleasure, front and back, and swells yet more so she will gasp and beg for more. _Mine now._

It wears the human awkwardly. This skin will do, for now, and it has so many delightful pleasure centers. Nerves that twang, holes that grip, needs that demand.

A goddess stumbles down from the temple.


End file.
